Arcanum 8: Automaton
by Designation
Summary: Manticore interrogations were anything but everyday, she’d learned....


_**Arcanum:**_

**Automaton**

**by**

**Kel**

**Disclaimer:** I do not presume to own Dark Angel or it's characters, and I make no profit from this fiction. But X5-213 _is_ my creation, aside from the fact that I am _so_ not the person who came up with X5's. Hats off to the DA writers.

**Note:** As you may have gleaned from the title _Arcanum 8,_ this fic is a part of my _Arcanum_ series. While I'm pretty sure this fic could stand alone without wobbling, I do recommend that you read the other fics in the series. Then you'll notice the streak of irony in the ending. And maybe you'll have read some other enjoyable stories.

* * *

Her hands still shook, so she kept them folded on the table. Her body craved sleep, but would have none of it. Fear coursed through her in waves of adrenaline, even as her weighted eyelids drifted closed. She had never in her entire life felt so tired and completely awake at the same time. 

Not even during the escape.

Escape.

Had it all been for nothing, then? If she was here, now, weak and in a state of surrender. . . . Even if she fought now, was it too late?

A lifetime of running, hiding, fighting for freedom, love and family; wasted in a sudden spiral to weakness?

She studied the cold room in which she sat, ankles shackled to the floor, sleek steel interrogation table sweeping in front of her. She remembered the hollow report as the door had slammed closed, and thought of how much it was like her life. Moving along, not always easy. Chained sometimes, but essentially open-ended – then, _slam._

Throwing her thought process out of whack (she expected that to happen a lot in the future, perhaps permanently) the door opened again, swinging softly in its frame to reveal a vision of tall, dark, and Manticore-manufactured handsome.

Sunlight, water; for the black seed of distrust planted in her gut.

She watched him as he entered, fluid and sure of himself, but somehow disconnected. She could see it in the way he turned his back on her to close the door with a gentle click. He wouldn't trust her, of course he wouldn't.

He knew the room, knew the layout. Knew the metal that both composed the shackles and rested in their grip. But he turned his back on them, as if momentarily forgetting their presence and threat.

He turned back toward her and moved to the other side of the table, an impossibly well-oiled machine. But what really made her spine crawl was his eyes.

They were like nothing she'd ever seen; all at once blank, cold, all-knowing, uncaring, and blacker than black. Even when she couldn't bring herself to look at them any longer, she could feel their weight upon her, driving her back, pinning her down, paralyzing her.

He eased himself down into the chair opposite her. "I'm going to ask you a few questions." As if it were something as everyday as, _I think I'll go for a walk._ Manticore interrogations were anything but everyday, she'd learned.

He dragged his gaze slowly along her profile, taking her measure. The gesture wasn't sexual, but it made her feel naked just the same.

"So ask, already," she snapped at him.

He began as if he'd never heard her. "Tell me something about yourself."

"That's not a question."

He gave a short bark of genuine laughter, and she restrained her shudder. As genuine as it may have been, he still sounded like a bad actor. His black eyes fixed on her again, and that was the moment she decided that this man was insane. Nothing as comical as to be called nuts or crazy, just cold, clear-cut insane.

He eyed her expectantly. She gave in, if barely enough to be called giving in. "I don't like you already. That's something, isn't it?"

"Sure. What about Renfro?"

Brin's eyes narrowed. "What about her?"

He leaned in toward her, staring into her eyes as if he could sift through her thoughts. "You don't like me, but what do you think of her?"

Brin shrugged in response. _That's it, _she told herself. _Don't let him think he's getting to you._ "She said I belong to her. I've got a question for _you_ . . ."

"213," he supplied, not taking his empty eyes off her. Perhaps he _was_ trying to sift through her thoughts . . . to find something to take, something to fill that emptiness.

"213," she repeated. "Do _you _belong to her?"

His own shrug was languid and indifferent. "Guess so."

"Tell me, 213," her glare grew in intensity. She wasn't trying to hide her fear anymore; she was trying to reign in her anger. "How is it that we can _all_ belong to someone that no one wants any part of?"

Again he overlooked her words as if they hadn't been spoken. "Do you watch television, Brin?"

"Don't say my name like we're friends," she growled, fists clenching.

"Do you?"

"Sometimes."

"Read any good books lately?"

"Does it matter?"

He titled his head to his left, still studying her, still expressionless.

She might have punched him, if she could have reached him across the width of the table. His casualness and ease infuriated her. What was this, small talk over coffee?

"I read a lot of books." Her voice was cold to her, but in comparison to those eyes, it must have been like a hot summer's day.

"Do you prefer tea, or coffee?"

"Do you prefer the taste of your own blood?" she hissed at him. If he did, she could certainly provide him with a litre or two.

But he didn't answer – he merely stared at her. She matched his stare with her own, fighting him without physical blows. He didn't flinch. _You were saying?_ He might have asked that question, waving his hand in a 'continue' gesture, but he didn't.

"Hot chocolate."

"Thought so." He laughed again. "You lot are so predictable. Have you ever owned a teddy bear?"

"Have _you_?" Another of those infuriating spaces, but before she found herself forced to fill it, she noticed something.

His eyes. They _weren't_ black, after all. Staring into them, she could see that they were a rich, dark mocha, and that his pupils were lined in an almost imperceptible ring of amber. The eyes were just so dark you couldn't notice their true colours unless you were drowning in them.

They might once have held emotion in their depths. No, not might. They spoke of deep love, or pain, long forgotten. They retained a quality that could allow them to easily hold feelings, even if they didn't now.

When she failed to give her delayed response, he pushed back his chair and stood. She thought he was going to resort to less casual measures of dissecting her life, but instead, he surprised her. "That'll do, 734." He moved to the door, once again dismissing her.

"But I didn't answer your question!" she blurted.

He flicked a glance over his shoulder at her. "I didn't answer yours, either." He took hold of the doorknob.

"Yes," she said softly. "When I first got out. I stole one from a little store just outside Wyoming. It was weird. I thought I should investigate."

"Yeah, right," he said, just as softly but just as dismissive as ever. As if she were lying, but might not even realize it. "You were lonely."

Her eyes fell to the table, embarrassment threatening to colour her cheeks.Such emotionsas those she felt every day were all too oftensuffocated in places like Manticore. _How is it that we can _all_ belong to someone -- some_thing_ --that __no one wants any part of?_

He turned the knob, but still hesitated before leaving.

His voice then showed her the first (and last) real emotion she would see from him. Maybe he _had_ taken something from her, to fill his void. She somehow felt happy about this – like watching a friend open a gift you had given them on Christmas morning. "Because there's got to be plenty wrong in a world that can dream _her_ up," he responded.

And then he was gone, leaving her proof behind. Proof that perhaps she could have a friend here.

* * *

"Report," Elizabeth Renfro ordered. X5-213 stood before her, at attention. 

"I have what you need, ma'am."

"Well don't just stand there, 213, _report._" He hadn't been in the room with the 734 for more than twenty minutes. She was angry with him. That, she liked to think, was never a good place to be.

He had convinced her, in his logical, uninvolved way, to remove all surveillance from the interrogation room – he'd better have every iota of information she needed. If not, she'd have him wishing he was in the rogue X5's unfortunate position, rather than his own.

And she knew, from experience, that this particular X5 was not the wishing kind. If there was one thing project Manticore could be proud of, it was that it had brought forth a soldier completely devoid of any emotion.

What unnerved her was that no one had any idea how it had happened. Once, X5-213 had been the most human creation on record. Soft. Prone to outbursts.

The only possible explanation she had for the drastic change was that it had been programmed out of him – but countless other transgenics had had that same programming, and none of the others approached 213's level of iciness.

She'd decompile him into a puddle of tears if he didn't know the exact recipe to break X5-734, and quickly.

The other escapees might come for her, and Renfro needed her blind loyalty, _now._ Failure was intolerable.

"Make her feel at home," 213 began. "She craves it, always. She wants somewhere to belong; maybe even love. Don't try to make her believe the outside is filth, just that Manticore is home. Convince her that Manticore is family, and that she is stronger with them. Don't try to make her loyal; convince her that _Manticore_ is loyal." Loyal, yes. Even as the very soldier before her sold off chunks of what 734 might call a soul.

_Make her believe . . ._ Renfro tossed his words back and forth in her mind, weighing their validity and potential. Something niggled in the back of her mind, like an itch just out of reach.

"And whatever you do, don't try to convince her that you're in control. She'll see it as outright idiocy, and she'll never accept it. Sneak in through the back door – that's your only chance. Ma'am."

_Don't try to convince her . . . she'll see it as an outright idiocy. _Yes, that made perfect sense. What had those kids believed they were running from, if not authority? What did they run to, if not some semblance of that phoney sentimentality called home?

_That's your only chance. . . ._ He spoke of exactly which truths they should show X5-734, and it sounded plausible enough.

But Renfro could have sworn she heard an undertone in 213's voice, and she didn't like it. He _was_ giving her exactly what she wanted, but she could almost sense a measure of distaste coming from him.

_Don't try to convince her that you're in control. _Spoken almost as if this was not only something 734 would scoff at . . . but as if it really weren't true at all.

Renfro studied 213 for an extra moment. He had been a useful tool for years. His profiling skills were exemplary, and he never hesitated to use them just as she commanded, for the good of Manticore. 213 was the perfect automaton – perceptive, yet highly obedient. Five minutes with a rogue wouldn't change that, would it? Could the escapees of '09 be that poisonous?

"Dismissed," she murmured.

No, she decided as X5-213 turned, just as stiffly as ever, to leave.

The rogues couldn't possibly infect this X5 with emotion.

Not _this_ one. Not ever.

**End.**


End file.
